


Cerealia

by clairedearing



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, The Hunger Games
Genre: Ficlet, Liberal Use of the Gods, M/M, Revolution, Shameless Fusion, history repeats itself, unbeated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairedearing/pseuds/clairedearing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History tends to repeat itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cerealia

**Author's Note:**

> Liberties taken generously. I killed THG's canon basically but I am _so_ sick of editing superhero fic and between procrastinating of editing it and writing a sequel to it instead (fucking hell, Boots) I wrote two fics, and this is one of them. Uh, don't hate me, please? There's a line from the Homeric Hymns down there, but that's Greecian and I had to change it and shorten it for the Roman name. Only read by me; if you see an error, please point it out. I won't be able to fix it right away but it helps me lots. :)
> 
> Shameless happy fic writing that I'm neither proud nor ashamed of. Enjoy.

“Revolution,” Haymitch says, skeptical and biting, and Katniss curls her knees up to her chin and listens. “You think we’re the first ones to try something like this?” 

Realistically, she knows they’re not. She’s angry though, at everything, at Haymitch especially, and he knows it too. That’s probably why he exhales like she’s been particularly troubling and sinks back against the metal bunker wall, scowling.  

“Learn from the past,” Katniss says.  

“Sorry, sweetheart; but history tends to repeat itself.” 

. 

The fourteenth Hunger Games are odd. For one, the situations are flipped; there is nothing particularly eye catching about the volunteers from Districts Two and Four, and while the girl and boy from District One is gorgeous in a sultry way and witty in a charming, respectively, no-one’s attention is much focused on that.  

Everyone’s eye is on the District Eleven’s reaped. The curious blonde hair boy with two missing limbs who volunteered when his younger brother was called. No-one much pays attention to the girl, an orphan with long brown hair and red bangs who tries her damnedest not to cry and does so anyway. They’re much more interested in the tan-skinned, golden eye seventeen year old who looks out over the reaping crowd and tells the brother he volunteered for in a nearly cheerful voice, ‘Like hell I’m gonna die.’

Famous last words. 

. 

Edward Elric catches the public’s attention. Who is this spitfire who’s so sure of himself? Who exploded at a reporter when he was called 'underneath average height'? Who _is_ District Eleven’s tribute? Some of the story comes out over the wait for the tributes to arrive; no father to speak of, mother died of illness, lost two limbs in an accident, and it gets out there’s a girl waiting for him back home, who gave him a prosthetic arm and leg as a keepsake.  

The media soaks up the younger brother, darker blond hair, a charming personality, and he does four times what any mentor would do in terms of sponsors. If there was a mentor to speak of. See, that’s the thing about District Eleven. There is no winner yet, which means, no mentor. 

. 

“Since we have a trend progressing,” the man says, casually nonchalant, natural black hair messy over his eyes. “I volunteer as Eleven’s mentor.” 

(If the media wasn’t attracted to the story already, wait till it gets out that District Eleven’s mentor is Colonel Roy Mustang from the Capital.) 

. 

“And why should we trust you?” Edward asks, devouring the food in front of him. He almost wishes Al should have been there; Edward wonders if he can take a tray of pies back with him if he gets out of this alive. When. When he gets out of this alive. Rose’s in her room, crying again. Edward doesn’t have time for tears. 

“Because we have the same goal in mind,” the Colonel says, and sips a glass of wine. “We both want you to go back home.” (The lie is as bitter as the wine in his glass.) 

“And you’re going to help me.” 

The Colonel spreads out his arms. “That’s my job.” 

. 

Scrub the dirt away, the callouses, the scars and hurts and years worth of hard labor. Brush out the hair, make it shine the lovely gold it is, dress him in black and reds and pull them away and dress him in browns and whites instead. 

(His heart does not skip in his chest.) 

“What is it, then?” the boy asks, staring down at his shining skin.  

“There used to be this old legend,” Breda says, shrugging at Falman who’s still holding up the old book in his hands. “This old culture, a couple thousand years ago, they had this god. Ceres; said that she had hair the color of flaxen wheat, that her skin was tan like the earth’s, and everywhere she stepped the soil sprouted.” He turns to the girl, swathed in blues and greens, forest colors blended around her eyes and into her skin. “Said she had these helpers, nymphs, that inhabited trees and rivers and forests. Figured it was better than last years default costume of dressing them like apple trees.”

The Colonel is silent, and then he takes the wreath of wheat and steps forward in front of the boy and crowns him. Golden eyes look at him, and he does not want this boy to die. 

. 

You can not fall in love in three days. 

. 

“I’m not too worried,” the boy says, even though his flesh hand is tight around the couch’s arm. “I’m good at surviving.” 

He scored a four. The girl scored a six. He grins up at the Colonel and mock whispers ‘like I’m going to tell everyone how good I am’. 

The boy _is_ good, he knows that much. He has an animal’s movement, a reflex better than most soldiers, and a determination in his eye that makes the Colonel want to believe every word he says. 

He does not want this boy to die but he has to. His plans ride on this boy’s death, on the public’s outcry, on the opportunity it will give him. This boy’s death will lead to a million lives saved. This is a sacrifice that is necessary. Nevertheless. 

(His heart does not skip in his chest.) 

. 

On the first day they scream at each other, fight and snark and snarl until the mentors from the level above them asks them to _please_ keep it down. On the second day they don’t see each other until the Colonel comes yawning into the front room, back from sweet talking every social circle he could get access to, and finds the boy curled up on the couch, staring out the window. 

“I’m not used to sleeping by myself,” Edward murmurs, and for some reason the Colonel decides to sit with him until dawn. 

The third day - 

. 

“What’s your plan?” 

Edward looks up from his breakfast and raises his eyebrow. “Shouldn’t you be helping Rose?” 

“Rose’s with Hawkeye. What’s your plan?” 

The boy shrugs, flipping a golden braid over his shoulder. “I’ll figure it out when I get there.” 

The Colonel scowls. “You have one chance to make a statement.” 

He’s not hungry. The food, lavish and delicious, is going to waste in front of him. The boy finishes his third plate of waffles and stands, dusts off his hand, and winks at the Colonel.  

(His heart does not skip in his chest.) 

. 

He talks about his brother, about the hill that the house his father built is on, about the smell of the orchards and way the river water feels over his skin. He talks, and talks, and the Colonel listens. 

On stage they ask him about his brother; does he miss him? Are you going to win for him? Do you have something to say to you brother, he is watching you know. 

The boy looks out over the crowd and says, “Take good care of him, Winry,” and the buzzer sounds that his time is up. 

. 

(Edward pauses in the doorway, too close but he can’t force himself to step away, and he looks up at the Colonel and smiles ruefully. “Guess this is the last time I’ll see you, huh? Promise me something?” 

Anything. 

“Take good care of Al and Winry for me, if you can.” 

Anything but that.) 

“You’ll come out of there alive,” the Colonel says, and the lie tastes like tart grapes, like stale bread, nothing like Edward’s lips against his just seconds ago.  

Edward grins at him and steps into the bedroom. “Love you too, Mustang.”

. 

(Is that a lie too?)

 . 

The boy tribute from District Eleven is one of the first out of the bloodbath, a bag of supplies under his arm and a long blade in his hands. He moves surprisingly quick for someone missing a leg.  

And he continues to stomp on every preconceived notion they have of him. 

(His heart does not skip in his chest.)

 . 

The beautiful girl from District One dies in his arms, a smile on her face, and he kills the witty, sarcastic boy tribute with a blade through his chest. The others that survived the bloodbath are killed one, by one. 

Eventually, there’s only three left. 

. 

 _Live,_ he does not think. _Live; your brother is waiting for you. I am waiting for you._  

He readies his gun and his soldiers, and prepares for the enviable moment.

. 

Rose is killed in the bloodbath. Eventually there’s only the green-haired Career from District Two, the scared child from District Eight that killed the girl from District One, and Edward himself.  

He has sponsors - when they don’t send him a plate of stew or bowl of porridge, he hunts the dense mountainous forest for food. Sometimes it seems that he’s never going to die, that this amazing animal-child will live forever and nothing will strike him down. 

Until the Career turns his sights on him. 

. 

It’s a fight that’ll go down in the public’s eyes as one of the best. The way the Career stalked the boy to the river side that had overflowed, pinning him there because the boy can’t manage the current with his metal limb, they way they glared at each other and exchanged taunts. 

Pinned and trapped, and the boy turns his golden eyes towards the Career and their dance begins. 

. 

The crowd cries, some in excitement, most in tragedy, when the boy from District Eleven is stabbed through the heart. Then they cry again when the boy lifts his blade and runs it through the Career’s neck.  

The Colonel watches, looks away, and takes the opportunity he knew always was going to occur. 

(His heart does not skip in his chest. 

It fails to beat at all.) 

. 

“It doesn’t work, of course,” Haymitch says, and Katniss knows that if he could, he’d sling back a shot or a swig of ale. “It started out alright; they stormed the President’s manor, held him at gun point, and nearly got the treaty they were looking for.” 

“What happened, then?”

Haymitch snorts. “They were caught. Each of them executed one by one. They made him watch his men die, first, bullet to the head for each of them. Then they put him on public display and hung him. Famous last words, too.” 

Katniss looks up. “What were they?” 

“He quoted a passage about how this culture, the Romans, they said Ceres was responsible for this horrible fire that burnt through and destoryed most of them. He said, 'She rent the covering upon her divine hair with her dear hands: her dark cloak she cast down from both her shoulders, and queenly Ceres wandered over the earth with flaming torches in her hands.' Tell me where they went wrong.” 

She thinks. “They should have told the boy about their plan.” 

“Wrong,” Haymitch says. “There was no possible way for that boy to survive. Destiny, or fate, or whatever the hell you want to believe - he had to die. That put things in motion, the whispers, the anger, but you can’t burn a house down with just an ember. You gotta wait for it to build, you have to fan the flames. Over fifty years later, and we’re just now getting the thing roaring. Guess again.” 

“The Colonel fell in love?” 

“Also wrong. They tell a glorified story about this in the Capital; that the Colonel was so angry and hurt that the tribute died he staged the rebellion. Was better than letting it be known that the whole plot was stewing for _years_ right under their noses. If anything, it helped the cause. One more chance.” 

“I don’t know,” Katniss said, scowling. “What, then?” 

Haymitch nearly laughs. “The key point of their plan was that Edward Elric _had_ to die. But, no-one wants to follow a martyr for the cause. Rebellion needs a living, breathing symbol - something to tell the people that there’s someone out there who refuses to be crushed. Mustang wanted to inspire sympathy, not a bad plan, but the masses would much rather follow someone who inspires hope.” 

“Someone like me,” Katniss murmurs. Haymitch nods. 

“You’re the girl on fire, but they were the people that lit that first spark.”  

“Did any of them survive, then?” Katniss questions, chin propped up on her knee. “Any of them?” 

Haymitch shrugs. “The brother, maybe. The girl back home. Maybe they ran together. There’s this old legend that they’re the ones that built District Thirteen from the ground up after the bombing, but no-one knows. Records don’t go that far back. Point of the whole thing is that rebellion can’t be planned in two months. This has been going on since before you and I were born. You really want to let a centuries’ worth of effort go to waste? Learn from the past, sweetheart.” 

Katniss murmurs, “History repeats itself.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be paralleling Ed and Ceres for weeks now.


End file.
